


return and pride

by overkidd



Series: mchanzo prompts [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 10:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11251050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overkidd/pseuds/overkidd
Summary: hanzo's not doing so hot after a run-in with widowmaker'jusqu'a la prochaine fois, dragon bleu' means 'until next time, blue dragon.'





	return and pride

Hanzo's mouth went dry the very moment warping metal echoed out it's groan from beneath his feet and around his head, watching as cold eyes flickered with thoughtfulness before him quickly accompanied by thin lips drawing tight as the spider calculated it's next move; sight flittering about in such minute movements that an untrained gaze would've missed it before she's raising her arms up and moves. He hears the sound of concrete rending behind him- comes to realize that the splintering noise was in fact Widowmaker's hook digging into the neighboring building later -before there's a jagged pressure at his chest forcing the air out of his lungs as dagger heels dig their way into his solar plexus.

What little breath that remains ultimately disappears as his back makes contact with the window behind him, shattering wood and glass into his skin with an resounding crash, then the wall of the opposing structure. He scrabbles for purchase, something to slow his descent, despite the screaming pain that ricochets about his body yet finds nothing; he feels his prosthetic fold in upon themselves when he finally makes contact with the ground, false nerves setting themselves alight with an overwhelming hurt, senses blood rush into his mouth as he bites down on his tongue in an attempt to keep from letting out the shrill noise he feels build up in the back of his throat- he was a prideful man, despite all his regrets and shortcomings, and he would not let himself sound weak before the enemy.

She lands with the kind of precision he could not, it makes his face twist into a snarl as a red hot burning sensation flares in his core, he does not take kindly to being on his knees before this creature and finds himself letting out a wet growl as her lips twitch up behind the scope of her gun; she looks close to laughing, delight dancing behind her eyes, it’s almost as if she’s alive- like the mauve of her face will suddenly wash away with a long since forgotten warmth -and it’s then that he realizes he will not be leaving this place in anything other than a body bag. He gives his life with an irked sigh and a tilted chin, not willing to die such a purposeless death with his head bowed- he desired to retain some semblance of honor before his end -and sucks in a low breath at the cold press of a barrel upon his throat after doing so, his ears beginning to ring.

Her lips part and Hanzo’s met with a wicked set of teeth, watches her mouth move around the knifes but in the end hears nothing besides the shrieking within his mind and the slowing of his pulse, body shutting down as if that’ll somehow save him from the bullet about to tear its way through his trachea to leave him choking on his own blood. He doesn’t expect the familiar sound of someone fanning the hammer of their revolver to pierce through the veil that had been casted over him, yet it does, startling both him and the sniper whom swears in her native tongue; she moves quick enough that he can barely process the butt of her rifle facing him or the sneer upon her face as she hisses- “Jusqu'a la prochaine fois, dragon bleu.” -and brings down unforgiving metal upon his temple.

He wakes to the taste of battery acid, the sound of eerie silence, and the feeling of drying blood bonding his clothing to the ground beneath him; each dull thrum of his pulse brings him to a new state of awareness, until his chest is seizing with short aborted breaths, and he can feel each portion of his body with intimate detail- the glass embedded in his back, squirming within his flesh, tearing skin and muscle a like as he curls inwards- the clutching of his throat, stomach seizing, as he watches from what feels like outside of himself as he spills ichor past his lips on to the pavement- the dark burgundy that paints his stomach so heavily that he can’t distinguish whether or not it’s a nasty contusion or blood swelling inside of him from a ruptured organ.

He has to force himself to look around in spite of the pounding sensation plaguing his head, he’s cradled between fallen rubble and the wall of the building he was forced against, faint light peering in from crevices in the debris; he finds himself quickly growing bitter, being crushed or shot would’ve been leaps and bounds more desirable than dying miserably slow within a tomb of crumbling foundation. He feels butterflies creeping up his throat as another coughing fit tries to rear its head, he lets a few slip even though it burns hot enough to make his eyes water, speckling the front of his kyudo-gi crimson with blood as he tries to drag himself to an up right position will sputtering so that he may rest his shoulders- which are by far the least damaged part of him by now -against the surface behind him. He wonders, idly, if maybe he shoved himself back hard enough he'd end this all a little quicker and the only reason he doesn't is his own twisted sense of honor that he can't seem to shake no matter how hard he tries.

It takes him a fair share of moments to hone his hearing to a point in which he can discern the noise of distant voices, heavily distorted, streaming from a crumpled piece of plastic he can only assumed used to be his communicator; he goes to toe the object closer but fire shoots through his thighs and blind panic flows through his veins as he sees his legs utterly torn a part- again, again, again. He loathes the way water collects in his eyes enough that it’s threatening to spill over, burning sensations littering his body that he can’t escape and then he’s hiccuping, reaching out, hesitating and brushing across tarnished metal. The words echo around his skull, ‘You need to be made an example of–’, and all he can think is not again, please, not again.

He recoils as if the metal is searing, lets a litany of curses tear out from his lips, and urges his gaze upwards with gritted teeth- tries to level his breathing as he pointedly averts his gaze from the absolute carnage of his prosthetics before starting to grope blindly for the disfigured earpiece, a low groan ripping out from within him as he’s forced to stretch forward in an attempt to grab at it. The pad of his finger eventually catches against the ridge that, at one point, fit snugly around the curve of his ear and he’s dragging it carefully closer- doing his best not to damage to device further -brings it to his ear only to have dread closing his airways almost immediately.

“Get on the damn shuttle, McCree, right now, that’s an order.” The words are being barked out like a true commander, not quite shouting but irrevocably stern all the same, by none other than Soldier:76- otherwise known, as of recently, by Jack Morrison -and he feels his heart sink; not out of fear, or bitterness, of being left behind- he’s not stupid, it’s the tactically smart thing to do, foregoing one’s needs for the sake of many others -but what he most certainly know is about to come next. “Eat shit, old man, I ain’t leavin’ without him.” Stupid, stupid, stupid- idiot cowboy-. “Get your head out of your ass, _boy_ -” He hears Jesse’s breathing hitch. “-we can’t stay here any longer or else-.” He feels as if he’s going to be sick again. “Then fucking go, _Jackie_ , y'know what– all of y'all just– just go.” He’s going to be sick again.

He hears the soldier murmur something close to, if not actually, 'ungrateful’ and can practically feel Jesse seethe- he hears the cowboy scoff, loud and unyielding, most likely throwing his arms forth in a gesture of anger- taking up as much room as possible, like always, dumb cowboy. “ _I’m_ ungrateful? You’re the fucking ingrate, Jack, he’s saved all our asses who knows how many times and you’re ready to leave 'im here to fuckin’ die!” Hanzo senses his face tightening up into a wince, pain thrumming in surges throughout his head at the shouting, jaw setting as if that’ll somehow ease the ache.

He fiddles with what he can only hope is the button on his com among the twisted pieces of it, prays he’ll be heard when he speaks, that the moron will listen to him when he says that he is not worth it. “Do not do this.” He begins with a snarl, feels heat gathering in his face, voice much more gravel-like than before. “You must leave.” He hates the way his voices hikes into vaguely pleading or how his heart sinks when he’s given no reply. Anger quickly replaces his desperation, he wants to swear again- maybe even throw something akin to a tantrum -chuck the broken thing across the small concave in a fit of rage but it drains almost as fast as it had arrived; he settles with merely letting his hand drop to the ground and his fingers unfurl.

Their argument lasts less than a minute longer- what is said, Hanzo does not know, focusing on their words would only serve to rile him up once more -and then there’s silence. He wants to believe that perhaps McCree had come to his senses against his better nature, truly, but isn’t surprised in the slightest when his wants go unmet- the familiar drawl echoing out from the device at his fingertips, mocking him, rending him.

“Heya, Shimada.” Rage flourishes for a few moments, he wonders if perhaps he had merely been ignored rather than unheard, but it dissipates quickly as the cowboy continues. “Can’t hear me right now, can ya? Probably broke your flimsy ol’ thing a while a go, haha, 'ssumin’ that’s why you’ve been so silent.” There’s a pause. “Or dropped it.” Another trying to ignore the most obvious answer- even if, in the moment, it is not true. “Imma keep talking though, after all, I sure do love the sound of my own voice.” There’s a tired laugh that follows that, low and aching, then the sound of earth crunching beneath spurred boots- he’s left his line open, presumably in hopes that maybe- just maybe -it’s actually getting through to the archer, that he might get a word or two back.

There’s a pregnant lull in the one-sided conversation despite Jesse’s claim, Hanzo nearly let’s the urge to rest consume him to the idle noises of the sharpshooter stomping about, when the gadget crackles back to life. “Awh, darlin’, ’m really sorry.” He shifts, runs his fingers through his own cooling blood, notes that he’s getting fretfully pale. “For all my boastin’ it seems I have some shit sight when it comes to you, kept an awful eye on ya, haven’t the slightest where you are.” The thought that he most certainly is going to die comes back to him, the pain has slipped away- from shock or blood loss he assumes -disconnected from his body, though if he moves he still feels the urge to writhe. 

“Lena said she saw you take off with Widowmaker- what I would do to have seen you two dukin’ it out like that -sure you gave her a run for her money, Han.” The cowboy speaks with reverence and adoration, Hanzo thinks that perhaps if his blood wasn’t slowly draining out of him that it might have rushed to his face at such blatant veneration, he thumbs the plastic in his hands. “You’ll have to tell me 'bout it after we get back to base.”

“You will be disappointed.” He finds himself replying softly, knowing his words are falling upon deaf ears, ignoring the way his voice is merely a hoarse murmur despite the effort it takes him. He doesn’t like the thought of failing the other, it causes a churning in his stomach he can’t put a name too, and he briefly finds himself thinking that then it’s perhaps a good thing the man’s chances of finding him are close to nil. He let’s his eyes close- maybe for the final time - before huffing a dry laugh to himself, how childish, he’d literally rather die than upset the cowboy. 

He falls asleep to the sound of Jesse’s breathing.


End file.
